A Plethora of Surmise & other stories
by Westron Wynde
Summary: A consulting detective's life is not an easy one - nor is that of his trusty chronicler. A series of short stories about those incidents that somehow never made it into print - for very good reasons!
1. The Three Pint Problem

**Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et all are the exceptional creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

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**For KCS**

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_**The Three Pint Problem**_

It was on a chill November evening that a familiar step on the stair heralded the arrival of our sometime ally in the art of crime detection, Inspector Lestrade. I remarked as such to Holmes, who nodded impatiently, as was his manner, and gave every indication that this intrusion would not be entirely welcome.

As it happened, Lestrade had chosen the worst time to visit. I knew he had been lured to our door by the promise of a ten-year-old bottle of malt whisky that a satisfied client had pressed into my hands and which I had offered to share if and when the Inspector had an evening to spare. That it was this evening, however, was unfortunate.

Holmes was deep in contemplation of the facts relating to the singular disappearance of the Dunmow Flitch and had only a minute before insisted on my silence for a period of no less than an hour. Normally, this would have presented me with little problem, since I had had several editions of _The Lancet _demanding my attention and a comfortable seat beside the blazing fire. The entrance of Lestrade into our little haven meant that this pleasant situation was not going to last for very much longer.

Not that I had any objection to the man, but he tended towards garrulousness, especially when a case brought him here. With Holmes in meditative mood and an ounce of shag at hand, the reception the Inspector would get this evening was likely to be as cold as the winds that rattled our windows.

Predictably enough, no sooner had Lestrade entered than Holmes had reverted to type.

"I have quite a three pipe problem at hand," he declared, "and I am scarcely through my first."

"A case?" Lestrade said hopefully.

Holmes glowered at him. "An excellent deduction, Inspector. Have you come to dazzle us with your perspicacity or is this merely a social call?"

"Well, I was just passing and I wondered if there was any chance of a quick nip of that whisky?"

"Certainly not," said Holmes bluntly. "This is not a gentleman's drinking club. If you and Dr Watson wish to addle your senses with alcohol, I suggest you take yourselves to the nearest public house."

At times, I wonder if there is any limit to the extent of Holmes's incivility when the mood takes him. There is no such thing as a 'mere social call' when someone makes the effort to come out on such a bitter night as this. That visitors are few and far between who choose willingly to spend time under the same roof as someone who could justifiably be called the rudest man in London also seems to escape Holmes's notice.

As usual, however, it fell to me to extend the hand of friendship in appreciation of Lestrade's gesture. I quite felt for him as he hovered on the threshold, unsure whether to go or stay. He looked pinched, harassed and near blue with the cold. Forsaking my fireside seat, I ushered him out, donned my hat and coat and suggested we leave Holmes to his own devices.

"Not quite himself tonight?" Lestrade inquired.

"Too much like himself, if you ask me," I muttered. "Have you time for a pint of beer?"

"I'll say," said he miserably. "The mother-in-law is visiting and I don't fancy another evening of listening to how much my wife's sister's husband, Reginald the lawyer, earns a year."

"How much?" I asked out of interest.

He quoted a figure that made me wonder if I was in the wrong profession, and suddenly I found I needed a drink as much as he did. He suggested a pub in Blackfriars where a colleague had told him they served the finest bitter money could buy, and we duly hailed a cab to take us to our destination.

Some little time later, we were in a bright, warm interior, rich with the smell of ale and smoke, and near deafened by the chatter of the patrons and the tuneless tinkling of a man on the upright piano struggling through _Nelly Dean_. As promised, however, the bitter was exceedingly fine. The first pint vanished without complaint, I slowed a little on the second and by the third I was positively struggling.

I was also feeling decidedly merry and pleased with the world in general. By contrast, Lestrade had become maudlin and had lost all moderation over the volume of his voice.

"Twenty-five years I've been knocking my pipe out at Scotland Yard," he slurred, "and not a gnat's of appreciation do I have to show for it."

"I'm sure they value you very highly," I tried to reassure him.

He shook his head. "What I say s'true enough. Started when I was a lad and worked my way up. No short cuts for me, not like these new boys that come in and think they know it all."

"That's the way of the world, I'm afraid."

"And then there's Mr...Mr..." He struggled to form the word and failed. "I mean your friend, Mr Gnolmes," he said. "How comes he's so clever? I've a good pair of eyes in my head and for the life of me I don't see half the things he does. How's he do it?"

"You don't have to tell me about it, Lestrade. I wonder that all the time."

"And you, Doctor, you're an intelligent man. How do you put up with him? He's so..." He gave a distracted wave of his hand. "What's the word?"

"Difficult?"

"That's it. He's dissif... diciss... he's smug is what he is."

He leant across as if to share a confidence, treating me to a blast of his beery breath.

"You know what, Doctor?" said he. "He wouldn't be so smug if he had to do my job. It's all very well him sitting there with his theories, but we get left with the boring bits. Locking 'em up, washing 'em down, standing up in court before the beak, and piling through piles and piles of paperwork. Bane of my life is that. Writing all day I am."

To my surprise, he suddenly rose to his feet, glass in hand, and swayed unsteadily on his feet.

"I'm nothing more than a clerk," he declared to all and sundry. "They call me an Inspector, but I'm just a clerk of Scotland Yard!"

The awkward silence that followed this statement should have warned me that events were about to take a turn for the worse. Several rough fellows by the bar began muttering amongst themselves and casting dangerous glances in our direction. I pulled Lestrade back into his seat and warned him to keep his voice down.

"Why, who's listening?" he said belligerently, getting up again. "Anyone wants a fight, I'll give it to them."

Unfortunately, one of the ruffians decided to take him up on his offer. Large, fleshy and worryingly muscular, he stood near six foot two, towering over the diminutive Inspector, who, to give him his due, steadfastly held his ground.

"You looking for trouble, sunshine?" said Lestrade, pulling himself up to his full, if less than impressive, height.

"We don't like coppers in here," said the man menancingly. "Especially not Scotland Yard Inspectors. It was one of you lot who had me brother up for a seven-year stretch."

I groaned inwardly. The evening was about to get very lively indeed.

"Well, it wasn't me," said Lestrade. "'Cos if I'd been in charge of the case, your brother would've got seventy years!"

He laughed, although the man found it less amusing. The punch he threw propelled Lestrade across the table, scattering glasses and beer dregs in his wake. He ended up on the floor with blood pouring from his nose while his assailant guffawed with laughter.

I had hopes it would end there, but Lestrade's temper was roused with the heat of indignity and alcohol. As I helped him up, my suggestion that we beat a tactful retreat was thrust rudely aside.

"Leave?" he protested. "Leave now when it's just getting interesting?"

With that, he charged, caught the big fellow around the waist with a tackle worthy of the rugby field and both went down into the crowd by the bar. Someone threw a punch, a glass was upended over someone's head and a brawl was suddenly underway between people who were only a moment before enjoying a quiet drink. A distressed whimper came from the piano as a chair crashed into it and the drunken pianist ended up on his back with his legs in the air, looking quite bemused as to where his instrument had gone.

My immediate concern, however, was for Lestrade, although I need not have worried. By the time I fought my way through a crowd of rowdy men, one of whom had a woman on his back soundly boxing his ears, the Inspector had somehow managed to gain the upper hand and was giving his opponent a sound thrashing. I tried to pluck him away, got a punch on the chin for my trouble, and had to duck as a table flew towards me and continued on its way to shatter the bottles behind the bar.

Only when someone shouted that the coppers were on their way did the fight break up. Never in my life have I seen a place empty so quickly. I could no better than follow the excellent example set before me, so I hoisted a triumphant Lestrade to his feet and fairly carried him out.

Fresh air succeeded in sobering him somewhat, although he was still far from being repentant.

"What a night!" said he. "I've not had this much fun since there was that riot at the docks. I'm glad we went for a drink, Doctor. I told you the bitter was good."

"But Lestrade, look at the state of you."

Considering he had emerged victorious, he bore the unenviable signs of having taken a beating. Blood was smeared across his cheeks, one eye was starting to show the discolouration of a bruise, his hat had been turned inside out and his coat was stained with spilt beer. Despite all this, he looked extraordinarily pleased with himself.

"Look at yourself, Doctor. Your lip is bleeding."

"You hit me."

"Oh, did I? I'm sorry about that. Got rather carried away in there. Most unlike me."

"Well, you can't go home to your mother-in-law like this," said I. "I suggest you stay the night with us at Baker Street."

"Mr Holmes won't like it. He's got his three pipe problem for a start. And what'll we say if he asks what happened?"

A suitable response occurred to us both simultaneously and our laughter rang merrily through the empty streets.

"We'll tell him," I said with a grin, "that we had a three _pint _problem!"

**The End**

**_Reviews appreciated and very welcome!_**


	2. To Bee or Not To Bee

**For bcbdrums**

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_**To Bee or Not To Bee**_

I know two things about wasps: firstly, that they are capable of inflicting a nasty sting and secondly, that they invariably sting me.

So when an insistent droning alerted my semi-conscious brain that one of the wretches was rather too close to my head than was advisable, I struck out with the manuscript that had fallen into my lap and squashed the thing flat on the table.

I am not usually so harsh in my treatment of wildlife. On the contrary, I have always maintained a deep appreciation for Nature in all her variety, unlike Holmes, who has gone from deriding the pleasures of the countryside to positively embracing it in his retirement. For me, there is little to compare with the honest joy of whiling away a quiet afternoon, listening to a great concert of birdsong and seeing passing skylarks fluttering restlessly against a cloudless sky.

So it was on this particular day, a balmy Sunday in May 1906, that I found myself seated in Holmes's garden, the great sweep of the South Downs laid out before me and a one dead wasp to my name. In one of those rare fits of self-indulgence that seize me from time to time, I had set aside the demands of family and work to call upon my old friend. He had, I think, been delighted to see me, as I had him, and thus far we had spent an entirely pleasant weekend revisiting past times and old adventures.

I must have been more tired than I realised, however, for no sooner had I settled myself in the chair beneath the spreading bows of a venerable cherry tree than my eyelids had started to droop. No doubt the generous lunch and warm sunshine had had something to do with it, and I had been lulled into slumber by the cheery song of blackbird and the monotonous call of the chiffchaff.

I was awake now though, vaguely disconcerted by my brush with an imminent stinging and aware that time had passed, but how much I could not say with any great accuracy. Casting about for Holmes, I glimpsed his cream clad and netted figure moving between the rows of hives, a smoker in his hand and a company of buzzing bees flitting around his head.

I will readily admit that such close proximity to stinging insects is not something I would entertain, although Holmes tells me that the work is immensely rewarding. I am happy to take his word for it and will ever resist his many attempts to draw me any closer to the hives than I consider necessary. As I say, I have an unfortunate propensity to being stung and it is a wise man indeed who knows his limitations.

For now, I had emerged victorious from my latest encounter. My would-be attacker was smeared in a tangle of fragile black legs, wings and gore across the back cover of a thick wad of papers I had been reading. _A Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_ was typed across the title page, and, at that time, being in its second incarnation, Holmes had left it in my care for the afternoon to both proof and opine upon. I gathered he would not be too pleased that I had used his magnum opus as an impromptu wasp swatter and so I quickly sought to eradicate the evidence of my crime.

Then it was, as the song goes, that my troubles all began.

Rather larger, rather stockier, rather more russet-coloured in body, this dismembered insect was like no wasp I had ever seen. In fact, it looked more like one of Holmes's bees. If so, he was going to find one missing from his hives come the evening. That was, if he performed a head count, like a shepherd with his flock; otherwise, I decided it was better that he did not know.

Unfortunately for me, as I about to remove the flattened insect, Holmes came hurrying over.

"Watson!" he cried. "Did you see her?"

"See who?" I replied, glancing about to catch a glimpse of the mysterious female who was the subject of his excitement.

"The new queen," said he. "She was headed in this direction. Do tell me you haven't missed her, my dear fellow?"

My soul sank as I realised that, far from missing her, my aim had been quite deadly. I could only shake my head as I surreptitiously placed my handkerchief over the bee-soiled page.

"Ah, well, never mind," said Holmes, removing his netted hat and gloves as he sank into the seat next to mine. "I must say, your timing has been quite superb. You've come at a critical moment. The old queen is about to be superseded by a young pretender!"

I smiled weakly. "Important, is it?"

Holmes frowned. "Have you not read my manuscript?"

"Yes, in places," I lied.

"Then you should know that the queen is the mother of the hive. Not yet twenty days old, but already the new queen is driven by that great reproductive urge to proceed on her nuptial flight and engage in that age-old mating ritual where the males dance attendance and secure the birth of future generations."

"Well, then perhaps we should go in and leave them to their rituals in private," I suggested.

"Really, Watson, do you think they give any consideration to you or I?" he scoffed. "It's only humans who blush or need to." He cast about again, squinting against the bright afternoon light. "Where the devil could she have gone? They do not usually stray so far from the hives."

Having been responsible for this insipient monarch's demise, I was naturally curious as to the consequences of my action.

"What happens if she does not come back?"

"Then the old queen will remain until another youngster rises to challenge her position. But it will not come to that. The old queen's days are numbered. She must either leave with whatever followers she can muster or be superseded."

"You make it sound like some Machiavellian scheme is taking place in the heart of the hive."

"It has shades of that, I will not deny. If she will not abdicate, then those who have served her needs throughout her reign will be her death. There is always a pretender for the crown. It is the natural order of things. One must either step aside or be forced to do so."

I had the strangest impression that we were no longer talking entirely about bees.

"And what has your old queen decided to do?"

"She has stayed, which is most unwise. Come the evening, the workers will despatch her and a new reign will begin." He sniffed thoughtfully. "But all this is covered in my manuscript. The fruit of my labours will be the final word on the subject, the finest examination of apiculture since Langstroth's _The Hive and The Honeybee_."

"I'm glad to hear that it pleases you."

Holmes sat back in his chair with a heartfelt sigh. "Contentment is where one finds it. What of you, my dear fellow?"

"I have never been busier."

"That's not quite the same thing."

"Perhaps not," I conceded. There were few things one could keep from Sherlock Holmes, and my thoughts had always been an open book to him. "Just lately, I find myself hankering for the old days."

"Do you refer to that never-ending round of murder, mystery and intrigue that regularly came knocking at our door? I have my fill of that in dealing with the bees. The hive mentality is single-minded towards preservation and there are no depths to which they will not stoop in pursuit of that goal. Did you know that the workers will kill male drones come the winter when their purpose is fulfilled?"

As interesting as this statement was, I was not sure how he expected me to reply. "In that case, it's a good thing humans aren't like bees," I said lightly.

"Are we not? When you consider the number of occasions where husbands have murdered wives and wives have murdered husbands, one must reach the conclusion that there are fewer differences than one could care to admit." A fleeting smile passed across his lips. "Perhaps we are just less honest about our motives."

"Is that your interest, then? The finding of parallels?"

"Not entirely. That is an incidental bonus, but an intriguing one, nevertheless."

"And you never feel the old urge to take up a case again?"

"I do not deny that should something fall readily into my lap, as it were, that I should not show some interest in the affair. As for returning to active practice, that has less appeal. After all, when takes one's final bow, one should have the good grace not to keep returning to the stage for an encore."

"You would never be tempted back, not even for the most exceptional circumstances?"

He considered. "That depends on what you define as exceptional. The word is liable to be overused and thus become trite. I receive any number of letters on a daily basis, asking me to looking into some 'exceptional' business or other."

"Oh, you still get inquires then?" said I, somewhat amused by this admission.

"Constantly, although for the life of me, I do not know how these writers have got my address. The postman complains that the weight of my mail alone is solely responsible for the crick he has developed in his neck. Since most of it is lamentably banal, it hardly seems worth his pain."

"Do you reply?"

"I do, although I am never sure if that is the wisest thing to do. If one does not, then one may be considered unforgivably uncivil. But by entering into correspondence, does one encourage the very thing that one seeks to avoid? Should we take up our pens against this sea of letter writers and by ignoring end them?" He chuckled. "'To reply or not to reply, that is the question'."

"Talking of writing," said I, "did you receive those last few copies of _The Strand_ I sent a few months ago?"

"I did. Most interesting reading they made too. One might have called them almost thrilling, something that reality invariably lacks."

"Is that a criticism?"

"On the contrary, it is to your credit that you have taken the slightest of cases and imbued them with a sense of the dramatic. One must never let the truth stand in the way of a good story."

I had to protest at this. "I believe I have always been entirely faithful to the facts."

"The facts, yes," said he. "But what of the actual events? Take the case you have titled _The Six Napoleons_. I seem to remember you grumbling bitterly and constantly of the cold during our vigil outside Laburnum Villa that night. In fact, we near missed the fellow on account of listening to your laments. Yet I saw none of that in the tale I read."

"I didn't see that it was relevant."

"No doubt, but then your memory has always been most selective. You omit your complaints, and yet you have me flushing and bowing like, and I quote, 'the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience'."

"Well, you did."

"But does the world need to know that? Twice in the same story to be moved to emotion? Should I wonder at it that I am inundated with offers from any number of women offering to be my housekeeper, amongst other things? You have unleashed a plague upon me, Watson."

"Oh, it's my fault, is it?" I said, good-naturedly.

"Entirely," he replied with a smile. "However, I intend to set the record straight."

"You aren't threatening to write one of your own accounts again?"

I had heard this particular sentiment many times and had yet to see any evidence that he was serious as to his intent.

"Indeed I will. There were a number of cases which I was obliged to handle on my own when you were otherwise engaged, so naturally only I will be able to do justice to them in the telling. Before I can turn my mind to trivial matters, however, there remains the question of my latest work. What did you think of it?"

He reached for the manuscript and I succeeded it snatching it away before he came across the evidence of my regicide.

"I haven't finished reading it yet," I said. "Some of the concepts were…"

"A little perplexing to the layman, I dare say," said he. "Well, point out the offending passages and I will do my level best to elucidate."

He was holding out his hand again and I was running out of excuses.

"Why don't I take it home with me? There's too many distractions here for me to give this work my full attention."

"Most certainly you will not," said Holmes, plucking it from my grasp. "This is the only copy and even then it is very much a work in progress. Should I permit you to…"

He drifted into silence as his hand came into contact with the sticky bee matter on the last page. I held my breath as he turned the manuscript over and inspected the scattering of remains. For a long time, he stared at the soiled page before turning to me with an expression that mingled inquiry and dismay in the most reproving manner.

"Sorry, old fellow," I said. "I was asleep and struck out without thinking. It was an accident."

Still he said nothing.

"What if I offer to replace her?"

Holmes snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, Watson. You are much too large to fit in the hive."

"Not me, personally. What I mean was that I would buy you another."

"Have you not listened to a word I have said? Queen bees are created by the most diligent pampering. One does not simply slip down to the nearest shop and purchase another. Dear me, but you have caused havoc in the ordered running of my hives and all you can say is sorry. Stormy petrel? I should rather have described you as an albatross, a bird of the most ill omen!"

Silence reigned after this outburst and I could tell he was brooding on the matter. The afternoon had suddenly become strained and I was left in a most awkward situation.

"Would you like me to go now?" I asked hesitantly.

"Not unless you have somewhere pressing you have to be."

"No, I have an hour and a half until my train leaves."

"Then stay." He whisked the squashed bee from the paper with a deft flick of his hand. "Even an albatross is a welcome sight to a sailor on a lonely ocean. As to the hive, it will survive this minor tragedy. The old queen will live to fight another day. You have given her a stay of execution."

"This will all be going in your book, no doubt."

"We shall see. I too have a selective memory. Perhaps if you make your future visits less infrequent, I shall not have cause to recall one trifling incident amongst so many."

A knowing smile touched his lips as he lay back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

"Have I mentioned that this garden is most lovely come high summer?" he murmured. "The breeze from the Downs is most refreshing and the fruit of this shady tree attracts birds of all varieties."

As I say, I have always loved Nature. For me, there is nothing to compare with the honest joy of whiling away the afternoon in the company of a good friend beneath the warmth of a benevolent sun and surrounded by the bounty of the season in all its colourful and musical glory. As inducements go, it is one to which I am most happy to submit whenever I am able. Should one day my felonious indiscretion fade from memory, then that too is all to the good.

After all, what is a bee between friends?

**The End**

_**Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	3. Oranges & Onions

**For pebbles66**

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_**Oranges & Onions**_

It was one of those glorious spring days that emerge from the showers of April to confuse us all with blue skies and rising temperatures. I was feeling generally quite pleased with myself, as one is wont to do when the sun is shining and an overcoat might be safely left at home, and so, with my wife away visiting friends, I had given in to one of those rare fits of self-indulgence and treated myself to lunch at one of Oxford Street's better restaurants.

I returned home in high spirits, and found a telegram from Sherlock Holmes waiting for me on the hall table. The message was polite but curt, inquiring whether I would be so good as to drag myself away from my pampered patients to join him for an hour or two.

As it happened, my waiting room was empty and my schedule clear for the rest of the afternoon. I wasted no time in setting out for the address in Highgate mentioned in his wire and soon my cab pulled up outside a red-brick house with no curtains at the windows.

Holmes was already inside the sparsely furnished parlour, accompanied by Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson and a portly constable. On the floor was stretched out the body of a middle-aged man, dead for some days although there was no outward sign of trauma.

Holmes spared me the briefest of glances, in which I read censure for both my delay and now my interruption. Suitably chastened, I took my place quietly out of his way and drew out my notebook and pencil in case any notes needed to be made.

I could not say with any certainty how long he had been there, but he was still in the early stages of stalking about the room, taking stock of all angles, and pushing the two inspectors unceremoniously this way and that when they happened to be standing in his path. After much shuffling about, we four ended up crowded in one corner, while Holmes stood with his head raised high, his nostrils quivering like a bloodhound seeking a scent.

"Anything of interest, Mr Holmes?" Lestrade asked tentatively.

Holmes said nothing and Lestrade did not repeat his question. It was a brave man indeed who disturbed him a second time in the course of his investigations.

Knowing Holmes as intimately as I did, I should have been aware at this point that all was not well with him. In my defence, I was feeling rather sleepy from a heavy lunch, a trifle warm and more than a little distracted. I should have recognised the warning signs. In fact, I only realised something was wrong when it dawned on me that all eyes were turned in my direction.

"So glad you could join us, Doctor," Holmes remarked dryly. "I trust you enjoyed your lunch? Gambrelli's Dining Rooms always offer such excellent fare at this time of day."

"Oh, yes, it was very good," I said blithely.

It occurred to me that since Holmes had not been privy to my plans, either he had read my mind, which he steadfastly maintains is beyond even his powers, or I had by some means betrayed the evidence of my gluttony.

"How on earth did you know that?"

He smiled tolerantly. "There has been a decided whiff of celery since you entered this room, Watson. As this is Tuesday, the only day on which celery soup is added to the list of specials at Gambrelli's, and since I know that your usual route invariably takes you down Oxford Street at lunchtime, I can only conclude that you have succumbed to temptation. This also means that Mrs Watson is away from home, since she would never allow you to bring such an odour into your surgery during consulting hours."

"All on your own, are you, Dr Watson?" Lestrade commiserated. "How are you managing without Mrs Watson?"

"Tolerably," said I, feeling the heat of mortification burning my cheeks.

"I would expect you to sympathise, Lestrade," said Holmes, "as I observe that your own wife is absent at present. Is your mother-in-law ill again?"

"As a matter of fact, she is, Mr Holmes," he said, bestowing upon me a rueful grin. "It's her feet again. What that woman suffers on account of her fallen arches, no one knows."

I have long been used to the universal assumption that as doctor I should naturally show an interest in every ailment of the general public at large. This is a fallacy that I find very hard to discourage. I learned early on in my career that the purpose of these intimate revelations was less for advice and more for sympathy and understanding.

In the case of Lestrade's mother-in-law's feet, I had heard about them on so many occasions that they were as much the bane of my life as they were hers. For the present, however, and much to my relief, the Inspector was more interested in how this aspect of his home life had been so readily exposed.

"When I see you with the same tie three days running, a creased shirt and unmatched cuff links, I am led to the inevitable conclusion that you are having to fend for yourself," said Holmes. "Since your wife's mother has been the cause for previous absences on her part, one must assume it was the case on this occasion too."

"Well, I never," said Lestrade.

"Then there is the fact you have taken to dining out," Holmes added. "Something with onions, I perceive. As you have told us in the past that the smell of onions gives your wife a pain behind her eyes, then I can only deduce that you have taken this liberty because she is away."

"It was liver and onions, since you ask," said he, his face flushing a furious red.

"No, I didn't ask. But that would have been my first choice."

"That little café a few doors down from the Yard serves liver and onions," said Gregson with a chortle. "Rather you than me, Lestrade. You're taking your life in your hands eating there. Their meat has a reputation for being on the green side."

"Ah, Inspector Gregson," Holmes said smoothly, "whose wife is very much present. You should tell her not to be so precipitous in anticipating finer weather."

"Well, sir, she will have her way and…" He tailed off in amazement. "Good heavens! You weren't listening at our door, were you, Mr Holmes?"

"Not at all. I merely noticed that your clothes are more suited to summer climes. This mild day has come as a pleasant surprise to us all; however, it is always advisable to let clothes air for some time after winter storage."

"I wondered what that smell was," said Lestrade, eyeing his colleague smugly. "Mothballs."

Gregson sniffed at his coat. "It does linger," said he. "I thought being out in the open air would blow the stink away."

"You were wrong. And there's me thinking it was coming from the corpse."

"A bit of lavender in the pocket," offered the constable. "That's what my old mum always advises."

"Your mother dislikes strong smells, Constable Boyle?" inquired Holmes lightly.

"Aye, she's got a weak stomach, sir," said the constable. "She can't even drink coffee on account of the smell making her head spin."

"Then what she will make of the twin odours of mint and garlic on your breath, I would not like to say. You did win your wager? Ah, you did, and to the tune of five shillings, the outlines of which I can see nestling in your right coat pocket."

"What's this?" demanded Lestrade. "Not gambling whilst on duty, I hope."

Boyle looked from one to other of us, his eyes wide with alarm. "It was only a lark, sir. The lads bet I couldn't eat a whole garlic clove."

"Did you, constable?"

"Aye, but how was I to know it was so strong? I've been sucking mint humbugs ever since to kill the taste in my mouth."

Lestrade frowned and held out his hand. "Hand them over, constable. Whatever would the public say if they knew members of the Metropolitan police were walking the streets eating sweets? Your superior will hear about this, young man."

"As interesting as this is," said Gregson, "what has Dr Watson's celery soup, Lestrade's liver and onions, my mothballs and Boyle's humbugs to do with our friend on the floor?"

"Everything," said Holmes bluntly. "For with this combined miasma, the four of you have conspired to rid this chamber of any of those lingering traces which may have assisted in the investigation of his crime. Instead of detecting the sweet scent of a lady's perfume or the unmistakeable aroma of Dutch tobacco, I am assailed by objectionable and unpleasant odours. Gentlemen, if you would, please take a turn outside!"

With so curt a dismissal, we were bustled out and left to stand on the doorstep in silence. No one knew quite what to say. Constable Boyle breathed into his hands to smell his breath, Gregson sniffed suspiciously at his sleeve and I kept my mouth tightly shut. I caught Lestrade looking at me as though there was something he wanted to say. I did nothing to discourage him.

"Celery soup, eh?" he ventured. "Any good, was it?"

"Quite nice, actually," I admitted. "Not too much pepper."

He accepted this statement with a thoughtful nod. "Not too keen on pepper myself. Makes me sneeze. Always has done. That, and mothballs," he added pointedly.

"I'm surprised you could smell anything after liver and onions," retorted Gregson. "In fact, Lestrade, I'm surprised you're still upright. The last fellow who ate there was six feet under a week later. Still, if it comes to that, at least you won't have to worry about your mother-in-law's feet any more."

Constable Boyle let out an involuntary chuckle.

"Find it funny, do you, constable?" said Lestrade, glowering down his nose at the fellow. "You wait till you're married and then you'll see there's nothing to laugh about."

"I've precious little to laugh at now, sir," said he unhappily. "I can hardly go home smelling of garlic and mint like I do. My mother'll think I've been up to funny business. She'll throw me out of the house."

"I shouldn't worry about your mother, because you'll be here on night duty if I have anything to say about it. Eating sweets indeed! It would have meant instant dismissal in my day."

"Yes, I heard they were a lot stricter a hundred years back," quipped Gregson.

Lestrade turned an unusual shade of puce at this slight and tensions began to rise. My fervent hope that Holmes would put in an appearance before the pair came to blows was realised a moment later when he emerged from the house. The pair spared each other a parting glare and turned attentively to Holmes for his pronouncement.

"He was poisoned," he explained. "Strychnine, I should say. That clenching of the hands, the arched back and the facial distortion is most typical in such cases."

"Yes, I noticed that," said Gregson. "But how did it get in his system, Mr Holmes?"

"Oranges," came the laconic reply.

"You smelt them on his breath?" inquired Lestrade.

Holmes frowned. "No, I found orange peel in the grate, Inspector. I should question the wife if I were you. The pair are obviously estranged, and their differences irreconcilable. While else would she take the curtains with her if she meant never to come back?"

"Good heavens!" said Gregson. "I hadn't thought of that. But if she's gone for good, why bother to poison him?"

"Another man? Public sympathy is far greater for the widow than the divorced woman, Inspector."

"Assuming it is the wife," I said.

"Oh, the choice of medium for the poison proves it beyond all doubt. I think you would agree, Watson, that oranges are an acquired taste. When ever have you been given such a gift by a passing acquaintance?"

"Well, never," I conceded.

"Now, if you wanted to lace someone's food with strychnine, you would want to be sure that the person ate the poisoned offering. Who better to know a man's tastes than his wife? Something to think about, gentleman."

Lestrade cleared his throat somewhat gruffly. "Well, we'll look into this business with the wife. Thank you, Mr Holmes. Do you want your name to appear in the official report?"

He waved the gesture aside.

"Mighty civil of you, sir."

"Not at all. Oh, I mention it in passing, but Mrs Hudson is preparing a pheasant for tonight, if anyone should find themselves bereft of a decent meal. There's always plenty to go round and she can be trusted to be very sparing with the spices."

Lestrade beamed. "I'll see if can make it along later."

"Capital!" said Holmes. "Good day to you, gentleman. There is a concert at St James's and Offenbach may be enjoyed as well in the afternoon as well as the evening. Another time perhaps, Gregson. Constable Boyle, take heart; the smell of garlic does wear off eventually."

With that, he was gone down the path. I made my farewells, said I would see Lestrade later at Baker Street and hurried to catch up with Holmes, who had already clambered into a waiting cab. I went to join him, only to find the door pulled shut against me.

"The concert?" I said hopefully. "I am free this afternoon."

"I do not think the other patrons will thank you for polluting their atmosphere, Watson. Whilst the odour of sanctity may be bearable, the odour of celery is quite another matter."

"Really, Holmes, it isn't as bad as all that."

He considered. "Well, perhaps my sense of smell is developed to a greater degree than most other men. Even so, may I make a suggestion?"

"By all means."

"Mint, my dear fellow, is considerably less objectionable. Avail yourself of several of Constable Boyle's humbugs and then – and only then – shall we be on our way!"

**The End**


	4. The Case of the Troublesome Trout

**For aragonite**

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_**The Case of the Troublesome Trout**_

Every man has his interests.

With me, it is music. When the mood takes me, I could wish for no fonder companion – of the non-human variety, that is – than my trusty violin.

It forgives my dark moods and the ill-treatment I mete out in my frustration. It is my willing accomplice in the conception of fanciful airs of my own working and in reaching the soaring heights of others more skilful in the art of composition than myself. It asks for nothing, save a few new strings from time to time, takes up very little room, gives a great deal of pleasure and is a thing of beauty in its own right.

The same, I fear, cannot be said for that object of veneration which has resulted as a natural consequence from the particular interest of my estimable friend and colleague, Dr John Watson.

Compared to the timeless workmanship of a genuine Stradivarius, the attractions of a stuffed and mounted Brown Trout are few and far between. That, at least, is my opinion. If we follow Mr Morris's exultation to have nothing in our homes that we know not to be useful, or believe to be beautiful, then 'Percy', as this glass-eyed monstrosity is dubbed by its owner, fails on all counts.

As trout go, it is large, I grant you, though it is debateable as to whether Percy is the finest example of _Salmo trutta_ ever to grace a glass display case. It floats for all perpetuity amidst ragged fibres masquerading as reeds with the most discontented look on its face that a trout in its condition might reasonably be expected to muster.

Watson, however, is disproportionately proud of it. Percy represents the antithesis of that old staple of the angler's repertoire of the one that got away. It is his record of a great success and the bane of my existence.

Many a dark and stormy night, his eye will wander to it, which is inevitable, given its position above his desk. A wistful look will come into his eye, he will sigh with remembrance and I will know that I am about to be regaled by another retelling of how he pulled Percy from a cold Scottish loch using a bead-head pheasant tail nymph. If I am particularly unlucky, he will produce the fishing fly in question, itself mounted on his pen tray, and I will be invited to say something complimentary about its craftsmanship.

I should say try, for having gone through this ritual more times than I care to remember, I find I am running out of adjectives with which to do justice to this collection of feathers and beads. All that really needs to be said of it is that it performed adequately in snaring a fifteen and a half inch trout. One could have wished for a specimen that did not look quite so malevolent, but beauty, so we are told, is in the eye of the beholder. Watson thinks the world of it; the other inhabitants of 221B are less certain.

Mrs Hudson, for example, believes that the proper place for it is the good Doctor's room rather than on public display where it might alarm decent folk. Certainly, I have had a few clients glance askance at it.

Invariably, the ladies blush and the gentlemen offer a polite inquiry as to its origins, of which Watson is only to glad to enlighten them. One particular visitor, a clergyman from the West Country, became so enraptured with the thing that he quite forgot the reason for his call and wasted a good quarter of an hour in trying to recapture the elusive train of his thoughts.

On such occasions, I have been sorely tempted to demand Percy's removal to some less offensive corner. I am reminded, however, that Watson does pay half the rent of this pile, less picturesque now for the addition of a stuffed trout, and is quite entitled to place his sporting trophies wherever he wishes. I am also mindful that the continuance of our harmonious existence depends on compromise. Percy is the price I pay for all those times he has been uncomplaining when I have scratched listlessly and occasionally tuneless at my strings.

I live with it too in the knowledge that I am partly to blame for its presence in our quarters. In the early days, when we entered on the joint tenancy of this residency, it had struck me that there were better ways for a man to fill his days than idly lounging by the fire, reading the papers until he succumbed to eyestrain. Mindful of his reduced constitution, I believe I ventured the thought that he would be better employed in finding some pursuit more favourably inclined towards a healthy mind and body.

He had asked what; I had proposed something that involved sitting down whilst reaping the benefits of the open air. Angling seemed to fit the criteria to a tee and my suggestion was seized upon with alarming alacrity.

Watson had declared himself to have been a keen angler in his youth and an enthusiast for fly fishing at that. It was not until several days later, when I was tripping over rods and impaling myself on carelessly discarded hooks, that I realised what evils I had released from the proverbial Pandora's box.

It is not that I have anything against angling, for on a few occasions, I have participated in the sport myself, but it does not grip me as surely as it does my friend.

In the three years since my suggestion, he has taken himself to far-flung spots around the country and come home replete with tales of carp the size of dinner plates, of pike as long as man's arm, of the perch that nipped his fingers. All very interesting to a fellow enthusiast, I dare say, but the finer points of the construction of the Green Highlander fly for the taking of salmon escape me. Once I expressed the notion that I might be more interested if from time to time he brought home some evidence of his prowess; I have since lived to regret those words.

Thus it was, from such an expedition in 1884, that Percy came to live with us. I remember the evening all too well, for it was unseasonably warm for early April and the atmosphere in our rooms was close. I returned to find Watson back from his fishing trip and a strange smell in the air, something akin to the time when a mouse had expired behind the bookcase and had slowly mouldered until our noses led us to its final resting place.

In this instance, the cause lay before me on the table. A parcel, slightly wet, tightly wrapped in newspaper. Curiosity getting the better of me, I opened it and came face to face with a large silvery fish, complete with red spots, plucked so I was told from the icy waters of Loch Leven.

In my ignorance, I assumed it was for our supper, although the smell suggested it was past its prime. Watson had other ideas. The next morning, both he and the trout had vanished. When he reappeared, I was able to deduce from the splattering of mud up the leg of this trousers and the top half of a receipt that I saw stuffed into his pocket that he had taken his fish for a stroll to Finsbury, more specifically Radnor Street.

At my polite inquiry, he told me that he could not tell me the purpose for his expedition as the end result was to be a surprise. Such notions worry me. I prefer to be prepared for whatever life may be about to throw at me. Therefore, after a little investigation, I discovered that Watson's ultimate destination had been the renowned firm of taxidermists, John Cooper and Sons. Shortly after, his cheque book vanished from my desk drawer. I dreaded to think how much it was costing him.

Several months later, Percy returned, his skin gleaming in imitation of water from copious amounts of shellac and varnish, mounted in a bow-front glass case with gilt lettering proclaiming the date and location of his capture, as well as the name of his proud owner. We decided that the best place for him was over Watson's desk and there he remained, dusted, tended and in no small part adored by the architect of its doom.

Generally speaking, such things do not bother me, but I believe I am not exaggerating when I say that that fish brought an element of unease into our previously tranquil haven.

Its baleful eye seemed to follow my every movement, the more so when I was alone, and firelight added a red glint which reminded me of a demon sprung from the pages of medieval lore. I took to covering it with a cloth when Watson was out; even then, I was sure I could feel the malign influence of that beady yellow eye trying to burn a hole in the fabric to smite me where I stood.

I did not confide these foolish fancies to Watson, for fear of giving offence. At least twice, however, he had returned home to find Percy under wraps and I had been forced to invent a tale about the damaging effects of sunlight. I endeavoured to be as convincing as I could, but Watson is blessed – or cursed, depending on your point of view – with an expressive countenance, which revealed all too clearly that he did not believe me. From then on, he regarded the two of us with suspicion, as though he believed a very real animosity lay between us, which was nearer to the truth than he imagined.

I could not love the fish, but neither would I deliberately wish to bring harm on it, knowing how dear it was to him. I say this in my defence, for later events would seem to suggest otherwise; the facts, however, are incontrovertible.

At that point, Percy had been living with us for nearly a year. Watson had taken himself back to Scotland in an attempt to better his record. I wished him little joy; the thought of him finding a friend for Percy was more than I could bear. More typically for the time of year, the rain came down in sheets, dampening clothes and moods alike.

With little to take my interest in the outside world, I was amusing myself by updating my index of biographies. I will admit that the chief disadvantage in cultivating untidiness is the length of time it takes to find anything. In this case, I had lost my T index, which after a long and tiring search, I finally spied on the bookshelf beside Watson's desk atop a medical directory.

I needed it to complete the entry concerning Talbot Tyler, the Teddington Tiger Tamer, and it was annoyingly out of reach. Had the papers not been so deeply strewn around my ankles and the room in a general state of uproar, I should have fetched a chair. Instead, I took my cane and endeavoured to dislodge the thing from its lofty place. After a few tentative prods, it wobbled and came tumbling down, bringing with it several books.

I saw them fall. I tried to catch them. I failed.

Glass smashed. Something snapped.

The upshot was that several hefty books were now embedded in Percy's glass case. With a great deal of trepidation, I peeled back the cloth. The devastation was appalling. I could deal with broken glass, but a broken fish was quite beyond my ken. Percy had fractured into a mass of ripped fish skin, scattered scales and shattered plaster. That same glass eye had popped from its socket and stared up at me, silently berating my unwarrantable cruelty.

I was more than a little perturbed at this turn of events. I never shirk my responsibilities, but I dreaded having to tell Watson that his pride and joy was in so many little pieces in the waste bin. He would be deeply saddened and would, justifiably, hold it against me forever.

In other words, I had a day to make amends before he returned.

My first stop was to the shop of the Jenkins twins, who specialised in supplying those necessities of life one never knows one cannot live without until the need for a replacement becomes pressing. Moustache protectors for cups, finger carrots for talcum powder, and mismatched Staffordshire spaniels – all this and more was to be found on the crowded shelves overseen by Isaac and Ignatius Jenkins.

What they did not have, they could acquire, if the customer was prepared to pay. Such was my current situation. I had acquired most of my disguises in their shop and they knew me well. They were, however, first and foremost men of business. The more desperate the client's need, the more evasive their manner and the higher their prices. This misadventure was going to cost me dear.

I knew their routine: purse the lips, take a sharp intake of breath, mutter something about how it would not be easy to replace and then inquire whether I knew the price of such things. I thought I had gone prepared, but as the pair surveyed the sorry offering I had laid before them, I saw the familiar warning signs being to take shape.

"Dear, oh dear," said Isaac Jenkins, pursing his lips and taking a sharp intake of breath. "This is a mess and no mistake."

"Not an easy thing to replace," said Ignatius Jenkins, matching his brother's air of apologetic concern. "You do know the price of these things?"

"Not much we can do with this, is there, Ignatius?"

"All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put this fish together again."

"Indeed not, brother. What happened to this fine piscatorial specimen, may I ask, Mr Holmes?"

"It had an unfortunate accident."

"Indeed it did," said Isaac Jenkins. "But what to do, Ignatius, what to do?"

For a long time, the two brothers stared at each other. I gathered this was their usual practice when attempting to part distraught customers with their money, and most surely it was working on me.

In such a state did I say the fatal words: "I need it by tomorrow, whatever the cost."

The mention of money made them both brighten. They had missed their vocation, for their act was so polished that they should have been on the stage.

"Ah, well, that's different, isn't it, Ignatius?"

"Indeed it is, Isaac."

"By tomorrow, eh? We'll have to find a replacement."

"Not easy though, a brown trout of this length."

For the next part, both grinned and spoke in unison. "Leave it with us, Mr Holmes. We'll see what we can do."

And so I left, in the hope that I would have something to put in Percy's place come the next evening. So grievously did the matter play on my mind that I was most out of sorts on my return to Baker Street, gruffly declined any offer of a meal and even went so far as to bring order to chaos by tidying my paperwork. I slept ill and spent the rest of the next day on tenterhooks waiting for a knock at the door.

Finally at six o'clock, Percy, or at least Percy's replacement, returned and I was relieved of money enough to cover several weeks' rent. I could not deny that they had done an admirable job under the circumstances. The glass had been replaced and polished to a high shine. Within, Percy's double, a much more amiable-looking fellow, gazed unconcernedly back at me, frozen forever mid-swim amid the reeds and gravel of his blue-backed home.

Suitably impressed, I restored the case to its place of honour above the desk and anxiously awaited Watson's return.

I did not have long to fret. On the half hour, he was back, effusive about his trip and dropping rods and fishing tackle about the place. He sank onto the sofa with a weary sigh and a brandy in his hand, and declared himself glad to be home.

"Not one of my successes," he confided.

My gaze inevitably wandered to Percy's double. He noticed the direction of my stare and turned loving eyes on the fish.

"No friend for you this time, old chap," said he.

"Why?" I asked, eager to distract his attention.

"Thunderstorms the like of which you've never seen," he explained, turning back to me. "I had about three hours of decent fishing all weekend."

"Well, rain is to be expected at this time of year."

"Doesn't usually bother me, but it was that heavy it was stinging my face. I had to give it up as a bad job and spent most of the time in the boarding house."

"How inconvenient for you."

"Not really. The landlady's husband was a keen exponent of the bagpipes. He was teaching me the basics. I might consider taking it up. Over the weekend, I've become quite good."

I inwardly groaned at the thought of the squeaks and wails to come if he was truly serious.

"How good?" I inquired.

He had gone to his desk where he was busily laying out his fishing flies. "I can get halfway through _The Bonnie Banks o' Loch_ _Lomond_."

"Which half?"

"Up to 'You take the high road and I'll take the low road'."

"No lovers disappointed by an inability to meet on the banks of said loch then?"

He chuckled. "Another day and I would have had the whole tune. Ah, well." Worryingly, his gaze strayed again to that accursed case and its piscine impostor. "So," said he. "What have you been doing?"

"Just keeping my commonplace books up to date," I said.

"I think you've been busier than that," said he, turning to face me with a knowing grin on his face. "In fact, I deduce that you have had a most trying time."

"I'm sure I do not know what you mean."

"Come now, Holmes, something has been troubling you these last few days. The circles under your eyes are near black with tiredness, the Persian slipper empty when I saw you filling it only the day before I left and…" He regarded me with a superior expression on his face. "I notice that you have been most careless in your shaving."

It was true that my mind had been on other things that morning and the razor had slipped twice.

"Well, deny it," he challenged.

"I have been a little distracted, yes."

"In that case, I believe," he declared with some authority, "I know the cause of your distraction."

"Watson, really," I admonished him. "You go away for the weekend, take up the bagpipes and come home with the ridiculous notion that you can beat me at my own game."

"Would you care to place a wager on my skills of observation and deduction?"

The first beginnings of doubt began to creep into my mind. "Certainly not."

"Come now, Holmes, it's worth a shilling of anyone's money."

To refuse gave the impression that I feared he was indeed capable of producing the proverbial rabbit from the hat. I grudgingly agreed.

"Very well, although I believe you are bluffing, Doctor."

"We'll see." He eyed me tolerantly. "Now, what happened to Percy?"

I nearly dropped my pipe. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You deny it?"

"I shall nothing until I have heard the reasoning behind such an absurd accusation."

He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Well, then the matter is simple enough. This room is unusually tidy, which, so Mrs Hudson tells me, took up a great deal of your time yesterday."

I was not aware that the room was any more or less disordered than usual.

"This I know because I see all your indexes heaped on the same shelf. Not in alphabetical order, mind, but the fact remains that they are all in one place. That pile of papers which has been lurking behind your chair has also disappeared. Now, in the past, you only make this supreme effort to make our rooms presentable either because we are expecting exulted company or because you are feeling guilty about something and wish to put me in a good humour before you spring the bad news upon me. How am I doing so far?"

Apparently my motives are more transparent than I had realised. All these years it seemed I had been nurturing a keen student of my methods unawares.

"Go on," I urged.

"Had we been expecting someone, you would not be still lounging around in your dressing gown. Therefore, you _are_ feeling guilty about something. When I see my books jumbled haphazardly on the shelf above my desk, I am led to the conclusion that an avalanche was triggered which resulted in Percy's demise." He paused. "Well, Holmes?"

There were some astounding leaps of deduction in his explanation that I should have been ashamed to call my own, but he had nevertheless hit upon the truth. I fished a coin out of my pocket and tossed it to him.

"Hah!" said he in triumph. "So I was right."

"Yes, you were," I admitted. "My apologies, my dear fellow. It was quite unintentional."

"Given your animosity towards Percy, I might be justified in thinking otherwise," said he. "But you have _tried_ to make amends, so I am inclined to forgive you."

"Most gracious of you." His choice of words brought me up short. "What do you mean, _tried_? It is an excellent piece of restoration."

He snorted. "And you are the one who maintains that it is the little things that are infinitely the most important!"

"Meaning?"

"Look again, Holmes, and you will see most clearly why I was certain that an accident had befallen Percy."

I did, but I saw nothing and had to admit as such.

"Percy was a Brown Trout," he explained, jabbing a finger at the case. "That is a Chub!"

Now he pointed it out, I began to see what he meant. This Percy had been skilful painted, but painted nonetheless to a silvery hue with the addition of red spots. The biggest difference, however, was in its lack of adipose fin and teeth.

Isaac and Ignatius Jenkins had tried their best, but in the end the fault lay with me. In my desperation, I had not examined the returned goods closely enough. I had been willing to accept any fish. I had forgotten that when it comes to anglers, they can tell their prize specimens at a glance as surely as they know their own children.

"Indeed," said I.

"Elementary," said he. "You owe me a trout, Holmes."

There was something about his tone that implied a threat.

"In the Schubert sense of the word?" I asked.

Watson shook his head. "I will have Percy or another specimen taken under similar conditions."

"Then what do you propose?"

"That you come with me on my next fishing trip or you have Percy repaired."

It seemed I was faced with the lesser of two evils. I collected the box that housed Percy's remains and surveyed the devastation I had wrought upon my foe. I could have sworn that those piscine lips were curled upwards in a smile of triumph.

To have Percy restored to his former glory was going to cost a small fortune. Still, faced with a journey to Radnor Street or the prospect of being trapped in the countryside with nothing but fish tales for the weekend, the former had infinitely more appeal.

So it was that in time and after a good deal of expense, my old sparring partner returned to Baker Street, looking as good as new and malevolent as ever. We spent what little time remained in mutual hostility until came the day when Watson removed Percy from our rooms and found space for him in his marital home. Mrs Watson had a far more tolerant attitude to the thing, mostly due to her insistence that it be housed in the waiting room, where patients might gaze upon it and she might not.

For myself, I found I missed my former nemesis almost as much as I missed its owner. Animosity transformed to fondness with time and often I caught myself looking back with amusement at the time I tried to fool my sharp-eyed friend with my poor attempt to pass off an inferior chub as a stately trout.

Absence deceived me as to his faults until the day he came back and our old antagonism promptly resurfaced. We never came to blows again, although Percy did play a crucial and near lethal role in the hysteria of Lady Constance Cholmodely, which Watson, understandably, is reluctant to lay before the public.

But that is indeed a story for which the world is not yet prepared.

**The End**


	5. The Thirty Nine Steps

**My apologies to John Buchan, but a good title is a good title is a good title, right? :)**

* * *

**For VHunter07**

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_**The Thirty-Nine Steps**_

Had I known I was going to be trudging through thick mud, I would have worn different boots. An old pair that I would not have minded ruining or ones that did not let in the sludge at the seams would have been preferable under the circumstances.

I believe I am not unreasonable in asserting that I particularly abhor that disagreeable feeling of moisture between already cold toes, but my companion would have it otherwise. There again, he had known the nature of our expedition and had dressed himself accordingly, including his eminently sensible footwear, so he knew little of my plight.

If only he had been a little more open about his expectations, I too could have come prepared. But no one ever said life with Sherlock Holmes was ever easy. Hence my squelching behind him now in the middle of a quagmire.

Put simply, we were on a treasure hunt. It had started, as these things invariably do, in our rooms at Baker Street and had led us to what currently felt like the middle of nowhere, but in reality was a few miles from Nether Wallop-in-the-Wold, a pretty village in Gloucestershire, where two brothers, Jeremiah and Jerome Forthby, had been left a fortune. All they had to do was to find it.

They had sat, side by side on our couch, one lean and dark, the other short and fair, with as little resemblance to suggest their kinship as Holmes shared with his own brother, and explained their problem. Their uncle and kind benefactor, Sir Lucius Forthby, eminent as an explorer of distant parts, had favoured them in his will with "the collected wealth of a lifetime". So far, so elementary.

The problem was that the old gentlemen had had a rather eccentric and some might say mischievous nature. Instead of presenting his nephews, his only surviving relatives, with a heap of bonds and stocks to go with the country estate, he had set them a challenge. It seemed he had thought so little of their collective intelligence in life that he had wanted proof, posthumously, that they did have an ounce of brainpower between them.

Accordingly, they had been left a map. Solve the riddle within one year and they would find the treasure. If not, everything would go to Sir Lucius's favoured London club.

Their uncle had been astute, for nearly ten months on since his death and with the deadline almost up, they were still puzzling over the strange piece of paper that thus far had been their only inheritance. A large black X did mark the spot, except it was nigh on impossible to make sense of the squiggles, broken lines and abstract numbers that surrounded it.

I like to think myself blessed with brains somewhat above that of the average man in the street, so it was rather irksome to find that I could make as little headway with the map as had the Forthby brothers. They beamed at me, the elder, Jeremiah, with his greedy brown eyes glittering behind pebble glasses and Jerome with his freckled cheeks rounded in shared sympathy with my plight. Even more annoying was the fact that Holmes understood its meaning immediately, but refused to enlighten us until we were on site.

To my mind, it was not in the spirit of the thing. The uncle had devised this puzzle as a test for his nephews. Hiring someone to solve it for them was an avoidance of the challenge.

Holmes argued otherwise. By enlisting his help, said he, they had proved their intelligence beyond all reasonable doubt. Were they indeed the fools their uncle had thought them to be, he maintained, they would have never acknowledged their limitations and would still have been trying to fathom the meaning of the map in vain.

It all seemed rather presumptuous to me. However, since Holmes had seemingly done the impossible and pulled the secret from the heart of the map, it would have been churlish to remain at home and not see the thing out. We left for Gloucestershire the same day.

Several hours later, standing in the manicured gardens of Forthby Lodge beneath a cloud-troubled sky, we surveyed the great sweep of the Marlborough Downs and Mendip Hills laid out before us and breathed deep of sweet country air. The night before had seen heavy downpours and the grass was springy underfoot. Now the sun struggled to break through and a stiff breeze swept up the valley to nip at our exposed flesh. We were armed with shovels, should the conclusion of our quest result in digging, and ready for the off. All we needed was for Holmes to produce the solution to the mystery.

I saw the awe on the brothers' faces, as from the browning sheet, Holmes produced a credible and legible map. I have to admit to being rather impressed myself. I had imagined it would involve complex calculations and the acquisition of a second map to make sense of the first, but in the end the solution was deceptively simple.

All he had to do, he explained, was to follow the fold marks in the paper in the order indicated by the numbers. A practical demonstration proved his point. The first fold brought together two eccentric shapes, which the brothers recognised as a monumental pillar set up on the highest point of the gardens.

My suggestion that Holmes complete all the folds to save us a long hike around the grounds was, unfortunately, unworkable. The brothers recognised very few of the later shapes and, where they did and where there were several such features that met the criteria, they could not agree on which would be most likely. We would have to follow this trail to the end.

We climbed up to the monument and gazed around for the second landmark on the map. Three wavy lines suggested a river and down in the ornamental gardens we glimpsed the sparkling ribbon of a stream wending its way between the flower beds. Down the hill we scurried, crossed via the stepping stones, slipping into the icy water as we did so, and on to our next location, a mighty evergreen oak.

Beneath its boughs, we paused and tried to make sense of the next feature, which looked like several stones piled one on the other. Jerome Forthby let out a squeal of delight and pointed to the farthermost corner of the garden, where we could just make out the moss-covered shape of a stone stile. On we went to puzzle over the next clue.

"V," Holmes said, slowly turning the map to make better sense of it. "Does that mean anything to you?"

The brothers shook their heads.

"Well, then," said he. "What begins with the letter V? We know, like all the other clues thus far, that it must be visible from this spot. Suggestions, gentlemen?"

"Verge?" I offered.

"Which one? As you can see, there are many."

"Vicarage?"

"Within sight? Come now, Watson, you can do better than that."

"Violets?" ventured Jeremiah Forthby. "Uncle always liked violets."

"The points on the map so far have been rather more substantial," said Holmes. "In addition, flowers are most unpredictable. There would be no guarantee that they would bloom where your uncle intended."

"Then what, Holmes?" I asked.

He pursed his lips. "I am not sure. But it must be here! This is no wild-goose chase, I'll wager. Ah!" A smile came to his lips. "Do you see it, Watson? V!"

I followed his pointing finger to an old elm. Some time in the past it had been struck by lightning, splitting the trunk down to its base. By some means, it had survived and continued to flourish, despite the damage which had left it looking uncannily as though someone had deposited a large letter V in the middle of the field.

Holmes was over the stile and striding briskly away before we had had time to digest this information. I followed, rather too enthusiastically, for I landed in something that had a thin crust on top and a brown slushy interior. The bovine inhabitants of this field had laid many traps for unwary visitors and I had found the first. I wiped the muck from my boots as best I could and, with revulsion pulling at my stomach, continued across the grass in pursuit of my friend.

He was waiting for us, as immaculate as ever, with an impatient expression his face.

"Do try to keep up," he admonished us. "Now, what do you make of this?"

The feature he indicated on the map looked like an upturned bowl.

"A dew pond?" I suggested.

"Excellent, Watson. But where?"

Before anyone could stop him, he had shinned up the tree and was surveying the local area. An exclamation of approval came down to our ears, followed shortly by Holmes himself, amid a flurry of leaves.

"In the next field," said he, dusting leaf mould from his clothes. "Come, gentlemen, the game is afoot!"

The game might well have been, but I was stuck fast. Where I had been standing in one place for so long, the mud had adhered like glue to my feet. I started forward, had the boot wrenched from my foot and stepped straight into cold boggy earth mixed with the essence of cow excreta. My disgust was absolute.

Jerome Forthby came valiantly to my aid, found himself similarly held fast, and toppled head first into the sticky mud, taking his brother down with him. The pair wallowed and wailed and tried to find their feet, while I tugged at my stuck boot. With a great slurping sound, it came free, but with such violence that it flew from my hand, arced high in the air and came to rest on a branch of the elm tree. The situation had descended into farce.

By this time, Holmes had returned, wearing his disapproval quite openly. He said nothing at first while he dislodged my boot and helped the Forthby brothers back to their feet. Only after this was done did he voice his irritation.

"If you are quite finished, shall we continue?" said he, his nostrils sardonically flaring at the spectacle we were making of ourselves. "There is some way yet to go."

"Holmes, my feet are wet," I protested. "And the Forthbys are covered in mud."

"Should our quest prove successful, they will have money to buy soap enough to last them a lifetime. That, I think, is worth a little discomfort."

"And me?"

"You should be more careful. Now, my dear fellow, make haste!"

Meekly, covered in mud, attracting flies and watched with a great deal of interest by a herd of cows, we followed his lead. Another stile led into another field and another long trudge across rutted earth and through deep puddles ensued. We arrived at the dew pond, itself rather full after the long night of rain, and stopped. Holmes refolded the map and offered it for our inspection. The drawing was of something that looked like a giant egg decorated with swirls. We glanced around for any sign of such a feature.

"I see nothing," said Jerome Forthby with dismay.

"And yet, it must be something that is visible from this pond. Move around, gentlemen; with all our eyes, surely we must be able to find it."

I was past caring about buried treasure; what I wanted was dry feet and a stiff drink to keep the cold at bay. Holmes gave me a pointed look as he passed.

"Do shift yourself, Watson. If you keep moving, you'll be warmer."

Dutifully, I wandered along behind him. "Holmes, what are we looking for?"

"When I find it, I'll let you know."

"A giant egg," I mused. "Surely it follows that we should be looking for a giant chicken?"

My flippancy did not impress him. He pressed on and I came to rest by the fallen trunk of an old tree. I sat upon and gazed out across the brown swathe of earth.

It was then I saw it. No giant egg this, but something rather more sturdy, standing on four muscular legs, blowing great plumes of curling breath from its reddened nostrils. We had assumed this field was empty; its current occupant, the bull that had been grazing by the farthermost hedge, begged to differ.

I rose slowly to my feet. "Holmes," I said in a low insistent voice.

"You've found it?" said he.

"Not exactly," I returned. "Look, over there, in the corner of the field."

His expression changed to concern as he saw the animal pawing the ground.

"I believe, gentlemen," said he, "that a tactical retreat would be advisable at the present time. We shall reassess our situation once we have made it safely over that gate."

The brothers now had seen the huge beast. With screams of alarm, they broke in to a run, leaving us behind. The bull stamped and charged. We took to our heels and fled.

To this day, Holmes maintains that we were in no danger. I, however, would swear to the fact that I could feel the ground trembling beneath my flying feet as the bull gained ground on us. I believe I have never run faster. We were up and over the gate in what must have been record time.

Not so Jeremiah Forthby. The seat of his trousers had caught on a protruding nail and he was wailing for assistance. We tried lifted him. We tried pulling him. Suddenly the full weight of the bull thudded into the gate and Jeremiah Forthby was thrown forward into our arms. He was safe, but not unscathed. A large piece of fabric hung forlornly from the nail where it had been torn from the back of his trousers.

The bull snorted his triumph; I wanted to laugh. Holmes too was struggling to contain his amusement. The situation was further complicated when down the track where we stood came a gentleman with a military air, a patch across his left eye, a handlebar moustache and several baying dogs.

"Good heavens!" he declared on seeing us. "Whatever is the meaning of this?"

He gestured to Forthby's torn trousers and the white undergarment that was poking through the hole.

"I didn't lose an eye on military service to have the other offended by the sight of Britain's youth standing around with their backsides hanging out!" said he. "Cover yourself, sir. Here, take my coat."

He duly passed the garment across and watched with a disapproving eye as Jeremiah Forthby made himself decent.

"You'll have to forgive us, sir," said Holmes. "We have had an unfortunate encounter with the bull that resides in this field."

"Didn't you see the sign?"

Now he pointed it out, we did see it. 'Beware the Bull', in large black letters was emblazoned on a plaque across the gate.

"Our attention was somewhat diverted," Holmes explained.

"We were following a map, you see," said Jerome Forthby. "I don't suppose you've seen something that looks like this."

He showed the military gentlemen the puzzling shape. "Looks like a regular mound of earth to me, seen from above," said he. "Like that one over there."

He gestured with his cane to a tree-infested bump that straddled the two fields through which we had previously passed. In effect, the map was making us double back on ourselves. We thanked him, promised to return the coat and found another way back into the field. The cows were pleased to see us, since we had provided such amusement on our last visit. They came wandering over and forming a semi-circle around us, as they watched with wide eyes and flapping ears.

"Ignore them, they are only curious," Holmes assured us. "A sundial is our next location."

"There is no sundial in this field," said Jerome Forthby miserably.

"Here, no," said Holmes who was shielding his eyes from the sun as he clung to a tree atop the mound. "But I see one in the ornamental gardens yonder. That is where we must go next."

The cows made no attempt to stop us, but they did follow, stopping every time we looked round as if to fool us into thinking that they had no interest in us at all. It was to my greatest relief when we were back in the gardens, even if it did involve pushing through a hedge and scrambling up and down and ditch.

Prickled, muddy and annoyed, we positioned ourselves by the sundial and awaited the next clue.

"Thirty-nine," said Holmes.

"Thirty-nine what?" I asked.

"Steps, I presume."

"In which direction?"

"It does not say, Watson. This is the final clue. But thirty-nine steps lie between us and X on the map, where we assume the treasure must be."

I glanced around. There were several features which could fit the bill. The stream, a rose bed, a statue of the Apollo Belvedere, and a mass of red rhododendrons all seemed to within the stated limits.

"What we must do," said Holmes decisively, "is measure out the distance of thirty-nine steps from the sundial. Then we may walk the circle and deduce the likely hiding place for your uncle's treasure."

"Begging your pardon, Mr Holmes," said Jeremiah Forthby. "But how do you know it is thirty-nine steps?"

"It could be thirty-nine yards," said Jerome Forthby

"It could be feet."

"It could be inches."

"It could be kippers."

"Kippers?" I interjected. "Surely you jest."

"By no means, Dr Watson," said Jeremiah Forthby. "Our uncle was very fond of kippers."

"Nothing so dependable in life as a kipper, he always claimed," said his brother.

"Gentlemen," said Holmes above their noise. "For argument's sake, shall we start with the premise that this number refers to thirty-nine steps? If we are proved wrong, then we shall consider yards, feet, inches… and kippers."

With a sigh of irritation, he placed his back against the sundial and proceeded to step the distance.

"Begging your pardon again, Mr Holmes," said Jeremiah Forthby. "But how do we know that your steps are equal to those of our uncle?"

"He was rather shorter in stature than you are, sir," said Jerome Forthby. "No more than five feet tall in his stocking feet."

"Indeed, Mr Holmes, you would have towered over him."

Holmes's expression clouded and a nerve started to twitch in his jaw. It was gratifying to see that I was not alone in being vexed by the afternoon's expedition. He stepped to one side and gestured to the shorter of the Forthby brothers to take his place. This done, the required distance was duly stepped out.

From there, we started round in a circle, missing the rose bed by inches, cutting the edge of the stream, skirting the Apollo and finally coming up against the rhododendron bush. Holmes parted the leaves and peered into the heart of the shrub.

"There is something in the centre," said he. "It appears to be a small mound and, unless I am very much mistaken, there is a door."

The Forthby brothers glanced at each other. "The old ice house!" they declared in unison.

"We knew it was somewhere on the grounds," said Jerome Forthby.

"But we never knew where," said his brother.

"Well, then," said Holmes, mustering up his most accommodating manner, "gentlemen, it seems we have reached the end of our quest. Your treasure awaits."

Having come this far and endured so much, neither brother was inclined to let the bountiful blossoms stand in their way. They attacked the bush with their shovels and hacked their way towards the hidden structure. A dull clang sounded, old hinges squeaked and there followed cries of joy. Moments later, the brothers had returned, bearing between them an iron trunk, their reddened faces and bulging veins showing how heavy was the thing they carried.

The padlock fell away with a deft blow of the shovel. Jerome Forthby stood rubbing his hands and licking his lips. His brother's greedy eyes shone with the light of expectation. The lid was thrown back and we gasped.

I had imagined jewels and priceless trinkets. What I saw was a collection of yellowing papers and many scuttling spiders.

"Stocks and shares?" asked Jerome Forthby impatiently.

Jeremiah Forthby had picked up a sheet and was staring at it with growing horror. Holmes took the top leaf from him and read aloud what was written on it.

"'_The Memoirs of Sir Lucius Forthby'_," he read out. _"'Herein lies the collected wealth of a lifetime, dedicated to my vacuous nephews. May it do them so good, for heaven knows, they need it more than most men'_."

"Our uncle has played a foul trick upon us, brother," wailed Jerome Forthby. "How could he do such a thing to two poor little orphans?"

"This estate is mortgaged to the hilt," said his brother. "We shall be destitute."

"Courage, sir," said Holmes, who had been flicking through the leaves. "From the merest perusal of these pages, it would appear that your uncle lived a most active life. Find yourself a good publisher and you may find that the print run will be in the thousands. My good friend, Dr Watson, tells me that sensational literature is all the rage these days."

There was nothing more to say, so we made our farewells and left the two bewailing the fickle fate and the unfeeling uncle who had promised them much and left them with precious little to show for it. I had some sympathy for them; after all we had been through, a pile of mouldering papers was hardly the treasure I was expecting.

"Well, my dear fellow," said Holmes as we started down the road to the station, "what have we learned from this little adventure?"

"That one man's wealth is another man's pile of papers?"

He snorted. "That was not my first thought, although I grant you that the observation is a valid one. I was referring to the importance of not leaping to conclusions and thus being led down erroneous pathways. I am as much to blame as the unfortunate Forthby brothers. I took the old gentlemen at his word and assumed wealth to mean a fortune, rather than the lifetime's experience he had meant."

"It was a natural assumption, Holmes. Sir Lucius was a wealthy man."

"Then why was his estate mortgaged? Had you had a chance to look through those memoirs, you would have seen that he had led a most colourful life. I am not sure that the fortune was not spent in its entirety in his lifetime, to teach his nephews a lesson about depending on inheritances. No, Watson, you cannot console me; I have erred, and not for the first time."

"I don't see it becoming a habit, Holmes."

"You are too forgiving, my dear fellow. As it is, we have missed the afternoon concert at St James's and you have ruined a good pair of boots due to my folly. Ah, well, such is life. In future, we would do well to read the signs."

"Like 'Beware of the Bull'?"

"Capital, Watson!" said he, with a merry laugh. "What greater treasure than the perspicacious friend who lifts one's soul from the gutter? Perhaps we may all learn something from Sir Lucius's example about the meaning of wealth. Well, now, let us away back to town and rid our lungs of this heady country air. But first, might I direct you to this most pretty stream which I see running beside the road. Your boots, my dear friend, are somewhat caked in something quite malodorous and I have no desire to pass the entire journey back to London with my head out of the carriage window."

**The End**


	6. Driven to Distraction

**For Pompey**

* * *

_**Driven to Distraction**_

Despite the best efforts of my friend and chronicler, it is a fact not generally known that I am as appreciative of the charms of the fairer sex as any man. Where the difference lies, however, is that I am little swayed by such considerations.

Watson will testify that I am more impressed by intellectual accomplishments than a comely face and a bright eye, but even from these I am not entirely immune. One may admire a beautiful woman, as one might admire a tiger, but at a distance, never forgetting the deadly nature that lies beneath the lovely exterior.

I make the point because it will no doubt come to some as a surprise when I state with all sincerity that the Countess Isabeau De Bohun had an exquisite beauty, the inheritance of her French forebears. Her coiled hair shone blue-black, as dark as any raven's wing, and the alert eyes with their muted fire were fine enough to set the coldest heart aflame. The sensitive mouth formed a perfect bow above the fuller lower lip and the delicate sweep of her neck begged for a lover's caress.

She was, to coin Watson's phrase, intensely womanly, the meaning of which I must confess had entirely eluded me until I had encountered this magnificent specimen of womanhood. That she was also a thief and agent for any foreign power who could meet her price did not detract from her physical perfection, but rather added to the allure that had so far garnered her three husbands, each of whom had bestowed upon her ever greater titles before conveniently dying to clear the way for the next suitor.

She had dragged herself from the dance halls of Paris to unimaginable heights by sheer ambition and calculated ruthlessness. Yet those same traits were to be her undoing. Her greed, her greatest failing, this night had got the better of her, as I knew it surely must when I had dangled temptation before her.

Thus it was that, on a fine evening in the closing days of September 1902, we awaited the lady's pleasure outside her hotel. The Duchess of Downcready's famed necklace, set with diamonds and sapphires of almost tasteless size, had proved to be irresistible. The butler informed us of its loss the moment the Countess left, exactly as he had been instructed, and along with Lestrade and a gathering of constables, we had gathered to apprehend the lady on her arrival with the jewels in her possession.

She must have known what awaited her when her motor car pulled up the drive. To her credit, she remained defiant in the face of defeat. Her confidence never wavered nor did the proud tilt of her head falter as she was helped down by her chauffeur to stand before us, resplendent in feathers, glittering in diamonds and softly shining in satin.

"Well, Watson," I said under my breath to my companion. "Quite remarkable, is she not?"

"I'll say," he said, with an approving nod. "Nice bodywork. I prefer the more curved backs myself. Expensive, I dare say. Well out of my league."

There are times when my old friend is still capable of surprising me, although in this instance, horrified might have been a better description of my reaction. I am fully aware that this new century has ushered in a fashion for speaking one's mind in the frankest of terms, but to hear such words from one whom I have ever regarded as the epitome of chivalry was quite shocking.

"Watson, really," I chided him. "This lady may be a thief, but she still deserves respect."

He gave me a blank look. "Whatever are you talking about, Holmes?"

"Your improper remarks not a minute ago."

"I was referring to the car. Why, what did you think I meant?"

He had that air of polite innocence which he usually adopts to annoy me when he knows full well I have come to an erroneous conclusion. I should have apologised for the slur I had cast upon his noble character and the ill I had thought of him, except that would have meant trying to explain the interpretation I had put on his words, which did me very little credit indeed.

I should also have known better. I had noted that his conversation of late had been peppered with references to these infernal mechanised monsters, the appeal of which entirely eludes me. The admiring glances he once spared for our female clients now seemed entirely focused on these lumbering vehicles, objects which are, one might say, less deserving of his approbation.

However, in that opinion, I was evidently in the minority. Every man present, from passing gentleman to admiring constables, were in awe of this brute, with its red leather seats, red spoked wheels, gold trim and white painted body.

"That's one of the new Mercedes, I'll wager," I heard Lestrade confiding to Watson. "Six-litre engine, 35-horse-power. Operated by an outer camshaft, would you believe. Whatever will they think of next?"

"Yes, I was reading about it," said he. "This is the one with the honeycomb radiator and light alloy engine block, isn't it?"

"Ah, something of a motoring enthusiast, are you, Doctor? Yes, that's the one. The frame is made of pressed steel and it's got a four cylinder engine, smooth as silk so they say."

"Do they really?"

I had heard enough. "Gentleman, have you quite forgotten why we are here?"

Somewhat grudgingly I thought, they turned their attention back to the matter at hand.

"So, Mr Sherlock Holmes," said the proud lady. "You are here to arrest me? On what charge?"

"A charge of theft, madam. You have the Duchess of Downcready's necklace in your possession which you stole not half an hour ago from her home."

She laughed. "Is that all? My, I must be a very great criminal to attract the attention of so busy a man as yourself."

"Great or small, theft is still theft. You would to do well to relinquish your ill gotten gains, least they are taken from you by force."

Her dark eyes blazed. "You will not lay hands upon me, Mr Holmes. You forget to whom you speak."

"You are nothing more than a common criminal, madam."

"You slander me, sir, but soon you shall apologise for your insults. Very well." With that, she opened her purse and emptied its contents onto the gravel drive. "You see, I am guiltless of your charge. I have no stolen jewels."

"About your person then."

"You would not dare!"

"I dare, madam, for it would give me the greatest pleasure to see you brought to justice," I retorted. "If not for your theft of state secrets, then for the thievery of those baubles which you value so highly. By your very actions have you forfeited your liberty."

Still, she would not be moved. I stood aside and let Lestrade carry out his duty.

"Well, now, Countess," said he, "if you would step inside with the constable here, we have a couple of female searchers to do the necessary. Unless you'd like to hand over the jewels and make it easy on yourself?"

She snorted and turned sharply on her heel to stride purposefully ahead of the waiting policemen into the hotel lobby. I watched her go, feeling a sense of unease about the proceedings. She was too confident and had acquiesced to the indignity of a search without too much protestation. I started to doubt whether she had the jewels on her at all.

"We should search the car in case she has secreted the necklace within," I suggested.

This met with whole-hearted agreement, although I sensed this enthusiasm had less to do with finding the evidence against the lady than other interests. I busied myself with the rear seats while Lestrade and Watson insisted on looking under the bonnet. Satisfying myself that the interior of the car had given up what few secrets it possessed, I went to see if the others had had better luck.

Instead, I found them deep in conversation with the Countess's chauffeur, who was a veritable font of knowledge about all things mechanical.

"So you see," he was explaining at length, "what we have here is a vehicle that boasts high performance, thanks to reduced weight. It's the way forward, gentleman, mark my words."

"It's to do with that honeycomb radiator I was talking about," said Lestrade authoritatively. "What's the power-to-weight ratio?"

"15.2 pounds per horse-power. Notice how low the chassis is too. Fair hugs the ground."

Watson and Lestrade both made admiring noises.

"Impressive," said Watson. "You hear that, Holmes? 15.2 pounds per—"

"The diamonds?" I interupted him.

"Oh, no, there's nothing here."

"And what of this fellow, the chauffeur?"

The man's smug expression faded. "Nothing to do with me, sir, what her ladyship gets up to. I just drive her where she wants to go."

"Turn out your pockets."

He complied, producing a dirty handkerchief, a few coins and a sweaty boiled sweet.

"Did you stop anywhere along your route home?"

The chauffeur shook his head. "No, sir. Her ladyship was anxious to get back, on account of her feeling the cold."

"On a mild night like this?"

He shrugged. "It can get a bit nippy back there when I open up the engine. Oh, er," he quickly corrected himself, casting an anxious glance at Lestrade. "Not that I ever go over the speed limit, you understand."

Lestrade nodded and sighed. "Bane of my life are these speeding fines. I was saying to Gregson the other day that they should never have repealed the Red Flag Act. I said at the time when that driver was arrested six years back in Paddock Wood for doing 8 miles per hour in a 2 mph area that it was the thin edge of the wedge. What happens next? Not three years later, there's two people dead as the result of a car accident in Harrow."

I recalled the incident, since at the time I had remarked to Watson that we had finally lost our minds in creating the perfect killing machine. "Grove Hill, wasn't it?"

"That's right, Mr Holmes. The two gents went out of control coming down the hill, hit the kerb and pitched themselves right out onto the road. Nasty business, by all accounts. I tell you, it's the speed that does it. Did you know there was an electric car a couple of years back that actually exceeded 60 mph?"

"Wasn't that the Belgian fellow, Camille Jenatzy?" said the chauffeur. "The Red Devil they call him, on account of his bushy red beard. I'm told he touched 65.7 mph in an electric car of his own design."

"What's the top speed of the 35?" Watson wanted to know.

"If I push it, 45 mph. Not that I ever do, mind."

Lestrade tutted. "Far too fast in my opinion. If you give people speed like that, they're going to want to use it. If you ask me—"

"We aren't," I said testily. "Did you at any time leave the Countess alone with the car?"

The chauffeur shook his head. "Not for one minute. Well, maybe half a minute, when I went back into the house to collect her ladyship's shawl. She'd left it behind, you see, and was feeling the cold."

"Half a minute," I mused. "Time enough to secrete the jewels somewhere about the car. But where?"

I wandered around the vehicle, peering into every nook and crevice as I went. I was crouching beside the rear axle when the engine spluttered into life with an ill-mannered roar and a waft of smoke and fumes swept into my nostrils.

"Sweet as a nut," the chauffeur was telling my two companions when I got to my feet. "Owes a lot to the innovative vertical valves operated by an outer timing shaft. Knocks the spots off the last car her ladyship had. An 1898 Décauville it was, a little two-seater car that made one hell of a racket. A real bone-shaker. I wasn't sorry to see the back of that, I can tell you."

"Funny you mention that," Watson said. "I was looking at the new Napiers. They're said to be pretty comfortable."

"Depends what you want to be using it for."

"My rounds mostly. The odd trip to the country, that sort of thing."

"Ideal, sir. Good solid car is the Napier. I've heard a rumour that next year, they'll be bringing out a six cylinder engine model."

"Wait a minute," I cut in. "You're thinking of buying one of these contraptions, Watson? You never mentioned it to me."

"I believe I did," said he. "Several times in fact, Holmes."

"But, my dear fellow, you can't drive."

"I'll learn."

"Easy as pie," said the chauffeur. "Even her ladyship knows how to drive."

I waved him aside. "Have you quite lost your reason?"

Watson seemed rather put out by the question. "Strange as this may seem to you, Holmes, it's my ambition to own at least one motor car before I die."

"Which may be sooner than you think if you get behind the wheel of one of these things. Exactly how are you going to afford it?"

"I have money."

"Clearly too much if you intend wasting it on nonsense like this. I knew I should have never agreed with you taking up your pen again. Had I known this would be the result, I would have rather destroyed every note and journal in my possession."

"Ah, you don't approve, Mr Holmes?" said Lestrade, peering imperiously down his nose.

"No, I don't, since you ask. This unreasonable fascination with the automobile will come to nothing."

"There's many will disagree with you there, sir," said the chauffeur. "It's very big over on the Continent. The French even have their own Automobile Club."

"We're not so far behind," said Watson. "Riley and Wolseley are good British makes, and the Sunbeam factory is making headway with the new rhomboid wheel arrangement."

For once in my life, I had the unpleasant sensation of not knowing what anyone was talking about. More pressingly, while we had been engaged in this idle chat, the constable had returned with the Countess. She stood, glaring at us down her graceful nose, the fires of loathing burning in those fierce eyes.

"Nothing, sir," said the constable in answer to Lestrade's inquiry.

"I will have my apology now, Mr Holmes," said she haughtily.

"I think perhaps you should," Lestrade muttered. "Better luck next time."

"Those jewels are here somewhere!" I insisted. "Hidden in this car, out of sight. But where? Lestrade, have your men take it car apart."

"I don't know about that, Mr Holmes," said he. "I'm not sure if they'd know how to put it back together again. Then there's the question of legality."

Much to my frustration, the discussion ranged back and forth about the rights and wrongs of dismantling a private motor car without a warrant. Then it was that my eye lit upon the metal protuberance that fed down into the petrol tank. Suddenly I knew where the jewels were hidden.

Before I had a chance to capitalise on my revelation, however, the Countess had taken matters into her own hands. While we dithered, she had jumped into the car with its still running engine, engaged the gears and near ran us down in her hurry to escape. We watched her disappear down the drive at full speed with her shawl streaming out behind her.

"Well, Constable," said Lestrade. "What are you waiting for? After her!"

"But I've only got my bicycle," the unhappy fellow protested.

"Then you'd better start pedalling, hadn't you? Off you go."

As it transpired, the constable never had to break into a sweat. We watched as through the gates came a brougham on a collision course with the fleeing motor car. The Countess sounded her horn, making the already alarmed horses start and rear. She swerved and the still evening was rent with the sounds of metal smashing into stonework. When the dust settled, we saw the mangled remains of the front of the car wrapped around a stone pier of the gates.

Somehow, the Countess had survived the crash. We pulled her from the wreckage as she fairly swooned into our arms. Several superficial cuts marred her ivory skin and a red swelling on her cheek told of the bruise to come.

Leaving Watson to tend to his patient, I supervised the recovery of the jewels. A piece of stiff wire was found and poked into the fuel tank. Something rattled as the wire was retrieved. As it was pulled clear, I saw the sparkle of diamonds breaking through the grimy coating of petrol.

"Well, I never," said Lestrade. "However did you know they were in there, Mr Holmes?"

"Because they were nowhere else. The lady left with them and had no chance to dispose of them along the way. I dare say it is a hiding place she has used many times before."

"A curse on you, Mr Sherlock Holmes!" the Countess spat.

"Take her away, constable," said Lestrade. "See to it that she doesn't get away from you again."

I sighed with satisfaction at a job well done. "Well, Watson," said I. "What do you make of it?"

"It's a tragedy," said he.

"A crying shame," agreed Lestrade.

I nodded sagely, watching the Countess being led to a waiting police wagon. "Ah, well, they do say that everything beautiful has its moment and then passes away."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Watson. "I dare say they can do something with it."

"Merely a question of a new radiator, front wheels and beating out the bonnet," said Lestrade. "Should be as good as new. Don't you agree, Mr Holmes?"

It was at that moment that I realised if I was ever to have an intelligent conversation with either of them again, I was going to have to learn the significance of jet carburettors and the technical merits of T-head engines. My interest was slight, but knowledge is never wasted. Who knows, it might even come in useful one day.

**The End**

* * *

_In case you were wondering..._

_First speeding offence, Paddock Wood, Kent, 28 January, 1896, costing the motorist a fine of a shilling (5p)._

_First recorded fatal motor car accident in Britain, Grove Hill, Middlesex, 25__th__ February 1899._

_The 1901 35 was the first car to use the Mercedes name and is considered to be the first modern motor car._

_Sherlock Holmes gets over his dislike of the motor car and ends up posing as an expert to fool Von Bork in LAST, who himself has a full garage and a 100-horse-power Benz. Dr Watson does learn to drive, but whether he got himself a Napier is unknown. Last seen driving a small Ford and masquerading as a chauffeur._


End file.
